


Try

by pretzelduck



Series: Try and Attempt [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretzelduck/pseuds/pretzelduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Q, turning down 007's repeated advances only makes sense.  Until it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try

**Author's Note:**

> After a recent rewatch of Skyfall, I found myself completely in love with these two and since it will be forever until I get to see Spectre (I don't do theaters usually), I'm writing fic instead. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr here: http://esotericrunes.tumblr.com (I occasionally like, infrequently reblog, and rarely post multifandom and chronic illness stuff)

“No, 007.”

The man in question was leaning against one of the columns that lined his new subterranean workshop and Q knew, without even glancing up – requests for a budget increases didn’t write themselves – that MI6’s most effective yet troublesome agent had that sly half-smirk on his face. He knew it was meant to entice and seduce; he’d heard Bond making a pull often enough on the comms. Why 007 was bothering to use it on him, Q had no idea. They had been over this enough times by now. Q didn’t do one night stands. Bond didn’t do relationships. These were immutable facts of the universe like a USB needing to be turned three times before it went in.

“Just once. I’ll never ask again.”

Bond had started out asking Q to join him on some exotic holiday. You, me, the ocean. That sort of a thing. It had been deflected easily enough – he didn’t do aeroplanes and the sun was his skin’s mortal enemy. He had believed that would be the end of it. The agent had needed a temporary diversion or it had been some sort of random thought and now they could both go back to work. At least, that’s what Q had theorized until he got to MI6 the following morning to find his desk covered in travel pamphlets. All to not-so-sunny destinations within driving or boating distance of London. He had let a couple of the minions use the lot for target practice with the miniaturized flamethrower that Q Branch was tinkering with. It was still annoyingly inaccurate, even taking into consideration the general lack of precision that was assumed by the use of such a weapon. Keeping the pamphlets – even just looking through them – was bound to encourage more of that sort of nonsense and encouraging Bond was the worst sort of idea. Something inevitably exploded. 

Although that one place in Spain had looked rather lovely.

“We have been over this, 007.”

Q could hear Bond walking closer and knew that it was for his benefit since all of the field agents could move like ghostly ninjas. The fact that Bond was being considerate of his more-than-occasional paranoid twitchiness was nice. He refused to use any other stronger adjective for his reaction to the man’s behavior. Q was all too well aware that it would be incredibly simple for him to develop _those_ sort of feelings for his agent – not his, bloody hell – but it was a completely terrible idea. He rather liked his heart in one piece, thank you very much.

And now, there was Bond’s hand, with its long fingers and weathered palm, a scant number of centimeters from his forearm. He didn’t touch him, though. Ever since all of this _nonsense_ started, Bond had stopped touching him. It had been entirely inexplicable until Q realized just how much he missed Bond’s tendency toward casually brushing his shoulder with his thumb and his habit of ever-so-slightly holding his hand when he handed over Bond’s assigned (and never to be seen again) equipment. The no-touch policy he had implemented had to be part of Bond’s master plan. Infuriating, that’s what it was. Getting him to look forward to something, only to take it away.

“One date, Q.” There was the faint rustle of the fabric of Bond’s ridiculously expensive suit as he leaned closer until he was practically whispering in Q’s ear. Oh, the man smelled delicious. Just the barest hint of cologne; his allergies appreciated that. He was not going to turn his head. He was not going to turn his head. Maybe if he repeated that mantra in his mind enough times, it would actually work. “Just go on one date with me. Please.”

Please? Bond was utilizing one of the more underused weapons in his arsenal. His voice was quiet, all sensual and knowing. What game was he playing at? He couldn’t fathom why Bond was persistent with this. Q knew that he was physically attracted to the bastard – he steadfastly tried to ignore anything deeper than that, even when he failed at it. Practically everyone who meets him was attracted to the bastard. He was also relatively certain that Bond knew it, too. Maybe that’s why he kept asking, even after he had turned down going on that preposterous holiday with the man. All Bond had done was alter his tactics – asking for a single date instead, even now a month later. Was it simply the appeal of toying with his affections? The thought finally made his head turn, almost involuntarily.

“Once again, no. I am trying to get work done.” 

Q’s voice wavered more than he would like but the fault was entirely Bond’s lethally blue eyes. This was why, when they were alone like this, he usually didn’t make direct eye contact with him. Because those eyes? They invalidated so many of his fears. The softness in them, the lightness that was only ever there in these quiet moments together… that certain shade of blue said this wasn’t a game to Bond louder than words ever could. It was a piece of knowledge that he tried to avoid because acknowledging it gave Q the oddest feeling in the pit of his stomach. Keeping Bond at a distance was easier when he didn’t want to pull him close and not let go. But wasn’t this was something that Q just couldn’t afford to give into? Particularly when he wasn’t even sure exactly what he wanted from him. Or what they wanted from each other.

“Why not?”

Bond’s other hand came up to grip the back of his chair, fingers carefully angled so they didn’t even graze the fabric of his cardigan. He was being engulfed – completely and totally. Q could feel Bond along every millimeter of his body, even though there wasn’t a single point of physical contact between them. All of the oxygen seemed to have dissipated from the air; it felt like Bond’s very presence had absorbed it all. He had to forcibly stop his body from taking an exaggerated breath. Hiding his acute awareness of their nearness was likely a moot point but it salvaged bits of his pride to try.

“Why don’t you touch me anymore?”

That wasn’t pride salvaging and it definitely wasn’t Bond deflecting. That was his mouth getting ahead of his mind and undoubtedly making things worse. And more complicated. This _thing_ wasn’t supposed to be spoken about aloud. Q wasn’t sure which he was more irritated with: his mouth for speaking out of turn or Bond for still not moving. He was as immobile as a statue; uncertainty etched into his features in a way Q had never seen. The gaze of those too blue eyes shifted downward and he felt the sensation of the tip of one of Bond’s fingers tracing a line across the back of his hand before the slight touch disappeared completely.

“Q, I…” The moment of hesitation clawed at his heart with an unexpected fierceness. “I never wanted to stop.”

Bond’s voice was rough, like forcing the words out had been physically painful. It was the truth, though, in its purest form. He may not be a master spy with the ability to analyze body language at a simple glance but he knew how to read the man standing next to him. He just knew. He remembered every line that crisscrossed that captivating face, the weight of the years and the life he lived. He recognized the tired wariness in the minute quiver of his upper lip. But those damn eyes… what Q saw in them in this moment quieted the doubting voice in the back of his mind, as if every concern he had about Bond’s intentions had been erased from his memory. Even though he was still looking down at his fingers, Q could read his eyes well enough to see what he needed to know and that knowledge changed everything.

James Bond was hoping.

And the need to reciprocate… to make sure that he knew his hope wasn’t baseless or unwanted… raced through Q’s veins. Words weren’t enough. Neither of them had changed position or even shifted, really. They were so close that Q could see Bond’s shoulders tense as he lifted his hand up away from the desk. When he brought his hand up to cup the side of Bond’s face, he expected there to be some sort of electrical shock to burn his fingers but instead he was greeted by the scratch of a bit of stubble and a wave of calm delight that washed over him from head-to-toe. Bond was looking at him now and he was _happy_ ; Q could see it in his eyes and feel it in the soft smile that formed under his hand. There were words he wanted to say but he couldn’t make them leave his throat. All Q could do was let those feelings of delight and rightness out through his own eyes and smile so Bond could see them for himself.

Something happened that he didn’t expect, though. Bond’s eyes slipped closed and Q felt an extra pressure against his palm as his face turned ever so slightly and he leaned into the touch. The movement fleetingly reminded him of one of his cats when they deigned to show affection but Bond wasn’t choosing to momentarily grace someone with his touch. He didn’t want to stop. James had been waiting for him.

His smile deepened a bit when he caressed along his cheek bone with his fingers but that was the last thing he saw as Q’s own eyes closed when he leaned forward to press their lips together, only a little inelegantly. It wasn’t the greatest kiss in the history of kisses… the angle wasn’t quite right and his glasses were a bit in the way as ever… but the answering pressure as James tentatively kissed him back was absolutely brilliant. Their mouths moved slowly and softly against each other, learning the new tastes and textures. His heart was beating faster and faster and Q knew he was putting it at risk of being broken but with each beat, he cared that much less. This kiss made him selfish; he wanted as many of these moments as he could have. He wanted to be the one that James made happy. Q needed to be closer – there needed to be more touching. His other hand groped around until it landed on the lapel of James’ suit jacket and gripped as he tried to pull them ever nearer.

It was as if that motion released something inside of James because suddenly his arms were everywhere and Q felt himself being pulled roughly upward and out of his chair. He was standing and they hadn’t even paused in their kiss. Pulling back for a moment to catch his breath, Q slid his hand down to rest against James’ neck and jaw, tugging his head closer as he dove in for a second, deeper kiss. Those strong arms were wrapped around him, once again engulfing him. One of James’ hands was pressed against his lower back - the fingers splayed out possessively – while the other traveled upward and entangled itself in his hair. Q wasn’t sure how long they had been standing there in that impenetrable embrace. They kept kissing too, only occasionally stopping to draw in oxygen. James was a bloody good kisser and he could only hope that he wasn’t too much of a disappointment in that department. The little moans of pleasure that they both kept making and the eager sweep of their tongues together were evidence in his favor, though. However, he needed to see him. Q needed to answer him.

Refusing to let go or even separate that much, he slowed his mouth and eased away only far enough to be able to see James’ face. He felt a rush of pride mixed with pleasure as he noticed the swelling of his lips and the uncharacteristic blush of pink across his cheeks. Q was certain he looked equally debauched, particularly with what state his hair was likely in. He couldn’t quite bring himself to care – digital security records of this moment would be insultingly simplistic to alter - especially when James was smiling like that.

“Yes.”

The single word tightened James’ features as his sharpened eyes searched Q’s face for the truth of it. He simply kept smiling and allowed his fingers to explore the bit of skin they could reach under the collar of his shirt. He knew the instant James believed him because his face loosened once more and this boyish grin appeared. All of sudden, he looked younger… and lighter… than Q thought possible.

“Yes, James.” 

 

-fin-


End file.
